Empty Mind
by SongOfInkAndLiars
Summary: Lost. Stumbling. Alone. Bored. So very, very bored. One morning London is dead, everybody's gone. And it's in the hands of Sherlock Holmes to find why. He's the only one there after all.
1. Chapter 1

Lost. Stumbling. Alone. Bored. So very, very bored. One morning London is dead, everybody's gone. And it's in the hands of Sherlock Holmes to find why. He's the only one there after all.

He wakes up after a night on the couch. His back hurts, but he doesn't care. He checks his phone for new messages: Nothing. Nothing on the website, nothing on John's blog. John isn't there too. The newspapers are on the table, carefully laid down between different parts of the human body, chemicals and a tray with breakfast on it.

Everything carefully prepared, but no sign of John. Nothing on the food indicates it's been made by him, the coffee is too cold and misses something.

Sherlock decides to go for a walk.

London is as empty as the flat. Nobody around to explain what happened, no sign that would explain what happened. Just the emptiness.

He sends angry texts to every number he can remember. Then he calls Mycroft: Mailbox. Of course.

As the sun slowly rises a noise begins to rise he gets back to the flat. Sherlock Holmes is left clueless, literally.

Then the noises began.

A constant banging, loud, annoying and almost perfectly rhythmic. It's muffled, else Sherlock would have been able to tell what it was. Of course. But the noise is muffled, as if there were multiple walls between him and the source, which is impossible since the volume doesn't change with the distance he tries to get between the noise and him. It's always there. Always!

Angrily he throws the first thing that comes into his hands on the ground.

The mobile makes an ugly noise when he steps on it, but it's useless now anyways and he can always use John's.

If it didn't disappear with him.

At least the situation promised a change. The solution would take some time. Or forever, which was more likely with the lack of clues.

He returns to 221b after a few hours, tired and annoyed. The sound is still there, constantly pushing itself back into his mind. The streets are empty, dull, boring. Nobody to talk to, nothing to talk about, nothing to think about.

Sherlock realized that although he could live without their help, he couldn't live without the presence of humans.

Maybe it was all a plan by Moriarty?

He noticed that the door had been open the whole time.

No, Moriarty wasn't that powerful.

The stairs looked the same way as always, he took two steps at once to make the way to the flat shorter.

But who was powerful enough to make impossible things happen?

After a short glance into the flat, only to reassure himself that everything was still the same (of course it was, who would change something? John? Mrs Hudson? They were all gone), Sherlock continued his way to John's room. He needed his mobile.

But what was powerful enough?

The phone was next to the bed, where it always was. The room itself was empty like always, maybe a bit messy. Still the military atmosphere was lying heavily in the room. Sherlock could have been able to tell how long John's time in the military was ago even if he didn't know it from the state of the wardrobe.

The answer was uncomfortable.

Sherlock took one of the jumpers, absorbing every tiny fact. Although he already knew all of it. Routine was feeling too good. He needed to find out what was wrong.

He called Lestrade.

Of course there was nobody.

He called Mycroft once again, even left a message. Shouted angrily at the wall, threw something that wasn't the mobile out of the window.

When the jumper reached the ground the sound was swallowed by the heartbeat of empty London. The banging never stopped.

He took a second jumper and took it together with the mobile downstairs, put them both on the table after putting unnecessary experiments roughly on the ground. This puzzle had absolute priority.

Sherlock asked himself questions, explained the situation to John, waited for a reaction, got nothing. Then he took his violin and began to solve the problem. Thing through every possible explanation, every possible reason, every possibility.

But he needed sound, he needed life. It didn't work when London was empty.

After taking the soft jumper once again and staring into the dark midnight in London, he began to search once again. Unsure about what would happen he went to the Underground, searched for any sign of humanity.

But there was nothing. Everything smelled desinfected, clean and boring, dull. As if someone had washed away almost every sign that there was something living here. London was deserted.

He returned once again, the jumper and mobile still in his hands, together with a few other things. Mainly things that didn't count, things that weren't important. A magazine filled with rumours and stories about celebrities he didn't know. An empty bottle, originally filled with some sort of alcoholic liquid he didn't know. A camera without any pictures on it. An old hairbrush.

The magazine was still filled with dull stories he didn't want to know about, one particulary bad one even about him. It hit a few of his experiments on the ground perfectly.

The bottle was completely empty and clean. The camera too, although the scratches on it and the memory chip showed that it had been used for a few years now. The hairbrush was clean as well, no single hair on it.

Always when he thought he had gotten used to it, the bangs pushed themselves into his consciousness again.

Humanity had disappeared and Sherlock Holmes knew what had happened to him. And he definitely didn't like the solution. He grabbed the jumper more tightly while lying on the couch and slowly falling asleep.

Sherlock stared at the wall. He had been staring at it for days now and John knew that he would probably never stop. The doctors told him that he sometimes had states in which he seemed awake, or at least more open to his surroundings.

During one of John's visits he had even shouted to make the banging stop. The noise one of the patients always managed to produce in some way, usually with the help of his head and a window, but he could do it by stomping on the ground as well.

What exactly had happened to Sherlock was still a miracle to most people. Mycroft had the most complicated solution that was connected to an unbelievable knowledge about the human brain and how Shelock's careless attitude towards nicotine and drugs of almost every kind must have damaged it in a way.

John looked down at Sherlock, who silently sat on the ground and stared at the wall in front of him, he knew that they were both alone now.

_- THE END -_

__**A/N:** Another story prompted by the same friend who gave me the idea for 'Train To Nowhere' a few days ago. This was done in much shorter time and turned out to be a bit longer, I can say that I am very proud of myself. My writing also seems to get better and better everytime.

btw: This is part of an experiment, I want to write something on each day of the holidays we have at the moment, they are two weeks long and this is day two, but I started it on Friday so let's see how long I can do this and what it changes ;D


	2. Chapter 2

He ran through empty London once again. Once again trying to ignore the constant banging that halled through the streets and lifeless houses like a curse. His curse. His own, personal curse.

He had been following his mind, did the things his brain wanted him to do. In this gigantic riddle he was reduced to those cells, this brilliant mind of his would lead him out of the hallucination he was caught in.

But first he needed to find a clue.

Some kind of clue.

Sometimes even the lack of objects could be a clue. This time it wasn't. Which had lead him to a great number of different deductions. None of them made sense at the moment.

He noticed he was wearing a different suit today. He had never changed clothes.

His thought process was slower than usual as well, but he blamed it on the banging. This horrible noise.

"Shut up!" His voice wasn't nearly as effective as he hoped to be. The window next to him shattered, he could feel liquid on his hand.

This was produced by his own mind, this whole place. The probably most accurate mental image of London that had ever existed. Except that it lacked humanity.

He was slowing down now, walking up a hill and staring at the houses right and left to him. Dull. So very, very dull. They were all the same, every single one looking like the one next to it. As if they had been built a few days ago, every unnecessary detail stripped off them.

Once again he tried to call Mycroft. Calling John from his own phone - he wasn't that hopeless.

The mailbox told him once again to leave a message and Sherlock told it once again in a very colourful language to shut up. Although he could have meant the banging as well.

His head was hurting, he needed to stop thinking for once. But the only solution for that problem had vanished together with London's population.

He sat down somewhere, entered a few houses, tried a few couches. Went back to 221b. Tried to wake up. Punched another window. Watched the red liquid slowly drop to the ground and waited for the pain. It never came. He was caught.

He googled it, knowing already what the results would be. Realized none of them would help him, this world was created by himself, if he didn't know something it wouldn't appear.

He turned on television, only to be surprised by a grinning Rich Brook. He would have almost smashed it as well, thrown it somewhere to his experiments on the ground but stopped shortly before doing so. He stared blankly out of the window, waiting for something to happen.

How does one escape his own prison?

John pushed the worried nurse away, entered the room and sat down in front of Sherlock. He probably didn't see him, judging by the clouded look on his face, but he didn't want to give up hope. Not again.

Sherlock started shooting the wall once again, desperate for something help him think. There weren't even any nicotine patches anywhere. John had taken care of that. John. And suddenly his whole mind was concentrated on John. He grabbed the jumper from the ground, brushed the dust away and stared at it for a while.

Maybe he missed him. A bit.

He should at least do that, John was his only friend. Friends missed each other.

"Listen Sherlock, I know you can't hear me... but... I miss you."

He needed to think. Think. He needed to bloody think! The banging got louder now, destroying his thoughts again and again like bullets that shot through them. Again and again.

"Can't you make this place a bit more quiet?" John turned to the doctor who shook his head helplessly. John muttered a curse and turned to Sherlock once again. Sherlock who had in that time furrowed his brows as if he stared at the air in front of him. The doctors said he did that from time to time. But still John couldn't stop himself from hoping that this time it would turn out to be more.

Why could he be hallucinating? Good question! Drugs. Maybe it had been too much. Mycroft had said something around those lines once.

What could he do against that? Better question! Nothing. If it was the long-term effect of drugs there was no cure. Not yet at least. Not with the drugs he had taken. John had warned him. Multiple times. He should have listened to him more.

"Just try to... use your real eyes, will you do this for me Sherlock?"

He closed his eyes, tried to find a way out of the delusional world appearing in front of his eyes, out of the room of his mind palace he was caught in. He ended up screaming in frustration and slamming his fist against the wall.

John jumped backwards, the fist missed him only by a bit. He had been able to feel the air moving. Sherlock had reacted to him. The doctors congratulated him, but he didn't feel happy. He felt even lonelier than before. Because Sherlock was still trapped and he was still alone in 221b.

221b was a deserted place most of the time. Time in general was a touchy topic. Sherlock didn't care about it at all so it turned out this place was as timeless as it was lifeless. Sometimes there was night and sometimes day. It didn't matter.

What mattered was the exit.

One day it was cold, the streets were frozen and it could have been a nice and sunny winter day. Sherlock put on the jumper because it was warm. And a sign of respect. Because he should consider himself dead now and when the people who were alive mourned for the dead, shouldn't he do the same for those who still lived?

He would appreciate if people mourned for him and not only because of the constant sound in the background.

John grabbed Sherlock's arm. This was the end, he suddenly realized. Sherlock wouldn't come back.

Sherlock threw himself on the ground, not caring about the shards of glass and chemicals. This world wasn't real after all. He saw and felt the blood, but not the pain. He closed his eye, when something grabbed his arm.

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes awake and sharp as ever, his hand at John's wrist. "John."

Then the moment was over and John was alone. Once again alone. He should get used to that.

_- TO BE CONTINUED -_

**A/N:**


End file.
